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It's hard to be a platypus

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It's hard to be a platypus when you're just a puppy.

But she tries, even though it's not her fault.

There's so little air in here, is that her choice? No. She wants the open sky to dance above her and the running water to keep her off balance. That way, when she breaks through the surface it will be all the more to be treasured. I've made it, she'll say; using her webbed feet and flat tail to swim to the air, to see the big blue again. It gives her something to reach for, a motivation she lacks...

Maybe, that's why she's still here, a puppy tied to a tree. There's no clouds to shape before her, no wind to ruffle her feathers; because, she's a pup. Puppies can't find anything other than themselves in the clouds, even if they can. Puppies turn away from the wind, for they don't have feathers.

Ah, that is another fault in her thinking. Will morphing her appearance, her traits, limbs, body, and mind alter her soul? Or reject it like platypus would to puppy chow? Would it then strike back for its insolence, slaying the small dog with its venom? Stay as you are, it clicks its tongue.

And she debates. And she debates... and she debates...

Goodness, she'll be a puppy forever.





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